


My bad, wrong room

by erimies



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, First Meetings, M/M, Masturbation, Meet-Cute, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4063816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erimies/pseuds/erimies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke's latest attempt to avoid the many people after his blood results in a bit of a case of mistaken identity. Luckily, the real owner of the room doesn't seem inclined to murder Hawke without letting him explain himself. He's also very attractive, and jury is out on whether that's good or not. </p><p>AU where Hawke meets Fenris by complete accident and there is a lot of sexual tension. This was going to be a one-shot, but I found that there was more to this little story after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's not what it looks like, really

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, my 3 a.m attempts at writing smut. I have no idea where this came from. I should also come back and edit this once I'm thinking more clearly.

 

The mistake, Hawke thought, had been to try to climb to Varric’s suite through the window. There had been an unfortunate misunderstanding last week, involving a few harmless explosions, and serah Liam had gotten into a regrettable habit of waiting for Hawke in the joint every evening to… presumably not make friends over a cup of tea. This had left Hawke with very few options, if he wanted to see his best friend and fellow conspirator.

However, his spatial recognition skills had apparently not extended to being able to correctly identify Varric’s window. Hawke stared, cross-eyed, at the blade of the greatsword that lingered precariously against his throat.

“Who are you, and why are you in my room?” growled the owner of the sword. He was an elf, white-haired and green-eyed and handsome in a way that would probably have made Hawke stumble over his words and stuff his feet in his mouth, had he not been worried over the prospect of getting skewered in the foreseeable future. He tried for a charming smile.

“It… seems you are not Varric. I may have made a terrible mistake. My apologies.”

The elf relaxed marginally, but did not lower his sword. “You seek the dwarf? Not me?”

“Definitely!” Hawke replied, lifting his hands in surrender. With his looming  height and muscular arms, it was generally difficult for him to look harmless, but even he couldn’t tower over anyone while on his knees. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a dinner in candlelight, but I would have asked you out properly. Nothing so creepy as climbing through your window. I think we’re many dates short from that sort of thing.”

And there it was, the stuffing of the feet in the oral cavity. In his mind’s eye, he could see Varric shaking his head in amusement. He hoped he would live to tell the tale of this particular humiliation, Varric would be so disappointed if he missed the details. And presumably mourn the death of his dear friend, come to think of it.

But instead of lopping off Hawke’s head, the elf blushed all the way to the tips of his pointed ears and made a nervous little chuckle.

Ohh, shit, Hawke thought. Now I’m _really_ in trouble.

“Unfortunately, I cannot take your word for it,” the elf said, and now that Hawke was in the mind to notice, his voice did all sorts of sordid things to a part of Hawke’s anatomy that had no business getting interested. The elf sat down on the bed, keeping a steady hand on the sword pressing against Hawke’s jugular. “I am… pursued by some unsavoury characters. I highly doubt that anyone would invent a plot so ludicrously convoluted as this, but I cannot discount the possibility. If I am to trust that you are as you say, you will have to remove your weapons.”

“I… yeah, no problem,” Hawke said slowly, trying not to trip over the notion that his captor wanted him to strip. Just the weapons, he reminded himself firmly, and reached behind his back to remove his daggers. This was not one of Isabela’s illicit smut novels.

He kicked the blades past the bed, far enough that he could no longer reach them. He’d left his staff at Gamlen’s place, convinced he could make two blocks without getting into serious trouble. Still, maybe it was for the best. Bringing the messy problem of magic into the situation seemed like a bad idea. “That good enough?”

There was an unreadable look in the elf’s eyes. “Armour, too. I… need to see you are not hiding anything under it.”

Mouth as dry as an Orlesian desert, Hawke pulled the clasps of the various pieces of metal on his body. The temperature of the room seemed to be climbing on its own.

Which was all sorts of unfair, in his opinion. As a setting for illicit affairs, the Hanged Man came up short; the room had the distinctive odour of dried piss and ancient blood that clung to the joint like a shroud. Yet here he was, getting flustered over stripping armour at the swordpoint of a handsome man.

He was down to his shirtsleeves by the time the elf was satisfied, and felt oddly naked for all the fabric that still covered his skin. A bead of sweat decided to be a bastard and dribbled down Hawke’s spine, leaving a cold, wet trail on his feverish skin. Hawke was aware of the sensation in exquisite, _unnecessary_ detail. Under the burn of those moss green eyes, he was all too aware of _all_ of his body, from too-tight skin to the layer of sweat around his temples, and the persistent throb of his prick straining against his trousers. _Unfair._

“Don’t move,” the elf said in his gravel-rough voice.

Hawke stifled an embarrassing whimper and obeyed, staying on his knees as the elf slowly put his sword down. The blade was still within reach, of course, but ‘away from my neck’ seemed to be the important part, and took away some of the metaphorical edge of the situation. Certainly it made Hawke feel a little less like an utter pervert for finding this all so arousing.

And then the elf reached out, carefully curling his hand around the back of Hawke’s neck. The metal of the gauntlet was sharp, but didn’t break skin. Hawke’s blood pounded in his ears and in his dick, and he was probably going to faint if he didn’t get to do something about it. He’d never known attraction to be this hazardous to health.

“And now, how are you going to prove yourself?” the elf asked. The words were thick with the influence of some unknown language, vowels tilting just-so, and eyes glossy and bright with arousal.

And Hawke was, technically, aware that this was a bad idea. They didn’t know each other, and had barely moved away from open hostility. They had both just caught onto some queer mood.

However, his libido had apparently mounted a coup while the rest of him was distracted. Instead of calling this _thing_ quits, Hawke shuffled closer on his knees. He laid hands on the elf’s knees, leaned down and pressed his lips against the leather covering a straining erection. The elf bit back something that might have been a curse, and his tentative hold on Hawke’s neck grew hard and unyielding.

Encouraged, Hawke made to pull open the laces of the man’s breeches with trembling fingers. In his haste, he failed to consider his position and was slapped in the face by an erect dick.  

There was a moment of silence, before both burst into laughter.

“Well, there goes the tension flying out of the window,” Hawke eventually managed to say, breath wheezing.

“Indeed,” the elf said, voice wry with humour. Hawke’s heart skipped a beat, the traitor. He could trust no part of his body today.

Not that the elf was in any better state. He was still hard and throbbing right next to Hawke’s cheek. Hawke couldn’t quite help glancing to the side. Blast it all, but he still wanted to suck it.

“Ah, yes. _That_ ,” the elf said awkwardly. “You don’t have to… I mean, I believe you. I don’t think you are here to catch me.”

“Glad to hear I managed to redeem that catastrophic first impression,” Hawke said. “But, uh… if you want, the blowjob is still on the table. If you’ll tell me your name first. Proper etiquette for these sorts of things.”

“I will take your word for it,” the elf said, unease melting out in favour of another smile. “I am Fenris.”

Hawke’s heart did another ludicrous somersault. _Balls_ . He was in _so much trouble_.

“Garrett Hawke,” he replied with the sort of impudent tone that usually made Aveline slap the back of his head. “So, uh, do you want me to…?”

Tension made a valiant comeback, creeping in the unseen corners of the room. Fenris swallowed, and the curious tattoos on his throat rippled with the motion.

“I… would like it,” he said. “If _you_ want to.”

There was an unknowable depth of weight in the statement, something that had the burden of bad history. Hawke sensed, on the same level where he understood where to tread in the treacherous wastes of the Fade, that one wrong step could ruin whatever fledgling thing was taking place here.

“Oh, I want to,” he said and smiled. “Very much.”

Fenris relaxed, something in his shoulders unwinding, and lightly pulled at the back of Hawke’s head.

Hawke took the gesture as the permission it was. He leaned down and carefully sucked the base of Fenris’ cock. It throbbed in his hand, hot as a burning brand. He licked up the vein underside, tasting salt and the clear fluid that dribbled down from the slit, and was rewarded with a gasp and tightening hold of fingers on the back of his head. Fenris was wirier than Hawke, but Hawke had a dawning suspicion Fenris would not be in the losing side of an arm wrestling contest. Hawke went down again, trailing sloppy, wet kisses along the length of the cock in his hands, and pretended not to notice the way Fenris growled at him in frustration.

Eventually, Fenris’ tug on his hair got a little too impatient for comfort, and Hawke took the hint. He curled his fingers around the base of Fenris’ cock and wrapped his lips around the head. He sucked, as far as he could, and pressed his tongue against a little spot under the head of the shaft. Fenris cursed and curled his legs over Hawke’s back. Hawke tried valiantly not to laugh. He failed miserably.

 “You – I – _Hawke_ , please,” Fenris gasped. His voice was a wrecked, breathless rasp. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ , I will not last – “

Hawke hummed, hoping it conveyed the message, and politely bore the stream of curses sent his way. Somewhere along the line, Fenris had slowly hunched forward so that his bright white hair brushed against Hawke’s neck. Lit by the moonlight through the window, it was a curtain of light.

“You –!” Fenris rasped desperately, and his entire body shook as he came. Hawke swallowed, ignoring the way Fenris’ gauntlets scraped his back. Hopefully, Anders would not ask for details.

He slowly pulled back, watching as Fenris caught his breath. He really was dreadfully handsome, expression relaxed with afterglow and moonlight throwing bright light and deep shadows on his face.

I really hope I’ll see him again, Hawke thought, and wretched longing pulled at his heart. He was a blasted fool.

“I, uh,” Fenris managed eventually, coughing into his fist. “Thank you. That was… incredible. Uh, would you like me to…?” He made a vague gesture towards Hawke’s loins. His ears were bright red again.

“I _want_ to say yes,” Hawke admitted, “but I think Varric is going to mount a rescue operation soon. I’d hate to tell him I was giving a random guy a blowjob in the next room while he scourged the entire city for me.”

Fenris chuckled. “Ah, I see. I suppose I should not keep you any longer.”

There was an awkward silence. Neither quite wanted to get up and leave, afraid to break the moment.

Blast it, Hawke thought. At least give it a _try_ , you idiot.

“You know, I think we’ve gone about this a little backwards,” he said lightly. “There should have been a romantic dinner. And candles. Possibly also roses and violins.”

“I –“ Fenris fumbled with his words, eyes wide in surprise. “I don’t… I can’t…”

Then he took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “Unfortunately, as I told you, I am currently in a difficult situation. I would like to try the dinner, perhaps, if that were to be resolved.”

“No problem,” Hawke said, corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Solving miscellaneous crises is my calling in life. I’ll introduce you to Varric, he’ll know what to do. If someone as much as sneezes in this city, he’s probably already there to offer a handkerchief.”

Hawke offered his hand to Fenris, who hesitated before smiling and clasping onto it.

“All right. I shall take my chances with you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever after, Hawke introduced Fenris with something like “I accidentally broke in his room, ended up sucking his dick, and now we’re friends.” Varric and Isabela laughed so much they almost fell over. 
> 
> They didn’t actually date for a while, I imagine, partially because there was the awkward situation with Hawke’s magic and both Kirkwall and Fenris’ issues kept getting in the way. Both just sort of got caught in the moment this first time. Fenris in particular had a bit of a power trip he then felt vaguely ashamed about.


	2. Stupid sexy mage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I did write more after all. Huh. Who knew. Also, it's still awkward for me to write smut, but this little story is pretty much going to be porn with sprinkles of plot. Maybe I can take this as a chance to improve.

 

Fenris followed Hawke to the room next door. Compared to his own, it was much nicer. The walls were covered in tapestries and the occasional painting, and the furniture wasn’t full of holes or missing a leg.

“Varric!” Hawke exclaimed, throwing his arms wide in greeting.

Varric grinned. “Well, about time! I thought Elthina might have finally traced the Chantry incident to you.”

“Steal one pair of Templar underwear, and you hear about it for the rest of your life.”

“It was three dozen pairs, and we hung them up all over the statues inside the chapel.”

Fenris listened, fascinated and just a little wistful, at the exchange between man and dwarf. Their banter sounded like an old quilt, comfortable and familiar.

“So, I take it you are the reason he’s late?” Varric said, turning to Fenris. “I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“Ah, yes. My name is Fenris. I am glad to make your acquaintance,” Fenris said formally.

“I mistook his window for yours,” Hawke admitted cheerfully. “He was upset at first and threatened to hack my head off, but then we talked and some other things happened and I may or may not have ended up sucking him off.”

Varric laughed from deep down in his throat. He laughed for a long time, having to grasp his table for support somewhere in the middle.

“Only you, Hawke,” he finally said, with breathless amusement. “This sort of thing could _only_ happen to you.”

Hawke grinned sheepishly. Fenris ignored the familiar burn of his ears. He had a sense of these people now, and wondered if choosing to follow Hawke had been the best of worst decision of his... Well, not his life. But the last few months, at least.

“Yes, well,” he said, pretending that he was absolutely not at all embarrassed in the slightest. “Regardless of the details, Hawke offered his aid in removing a group of people sent after me. He assured that you would have information that might help.”

“He did? Sounds about right, he never could keep his nose out of trouble,” Varric said, gesturing at the table where a fine assortment of alcohol awaited. “Let’s hear the story.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris had not, despite the look of it, decided to trust Hawke solely on a leap of faith. He was a warrior by trade, not a spy, but being able to read people had served him well in a life where his welfare depended on the moods of his capricious master. And then, later, being able to tell the difference between a silence that was indifferent and a silence that was the desire to avoid trouble had kept him one step ahead of pursuers. There had been no deceit in Hawke’s eyes, no calculating glint of manipulation.

And now, as he recounted the bare bones of his story (no need to dig into the sordid details, let those rot in the vaults of his memory), he saw only wide-eyed dismay and outrage. For his sake, Fenris thought with both prideful irritation and budding affection.

After he was done, he realised that something had changed. Something in the way Varric glanced at Hawke, and the contrite look he received in return.

There was an awkward silence, before Varric spoke. “Come on, Hawke. You know it’s best to get these things out in the open. It’s messy enough now that you already slept with him, don’t keep it from him. It’ll hurt everyone in the end.”

The words were laced with something bitter, an old pain that had lost most of its colour over the years, but never substance. However, it was Hawke Fenris watched, eyebrows furrowed at the way the man squirmed.

“I… Varric is right, I _should_ tell you,” Hawke said self-consciously. “It’s just…”

He sighed, lifted his hand, and beautiful carmine flames burst to life, dancing above his palm.

Fenris stared in silence, and the moment stretched into some sort of a discount version of eternity. He tried and failed to summon the usual toxic miasma of anger that always coiled inside him. He felt nothing but dull disappointment and… and a sense of betrayal, however unwarranted.

“It’s not like I was going to keep hiding it,” Hawke said. “I mean, most people don’t want anything more than a single night with an apostate… but I figure you don’t even want that much. I’m sorry.”

And the apology was for the lie that was the omission of truth… but below the surface Fenris also heard an apology for being a mage. For existing in such an offensive manner.

He should have agreed with the sentiment, Fenris thought, but he _couldn’t_ , because something about it didn’t seem right.

“I… need some fresh air,” Fenris said, standing up abruptly. And, because some mercenary part of him still saw the value of potential allies, he continued: “Could we perhaps finish this discussion tomorrow?”

Hawke gave a shaky nod. “I… yes. I’d be happy to help you, regardless of…” he trailed off, but Fenris understood. Hawke still wanted to help him get rid of his pursuers, whether or not Fenris would accept the dinner invitation.

It was a noble, decent offer. Something a good man would do.

Perhaps, later on, Fenris would even appreciate it. Right now, he had to get away. From the man he’d… who had…

And Fenris stalked out of Varric’s suite, letting the door fall shut behind him. A swirl of confused, tangled thoughts trailed behind.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later saw Fenris back in his room, skin cold from a stroll in Kirkwall’s night.

Though he had been determined to nurse his anger, Hawke was not Danarius and somewhere along the line the flames of his ire had quietly snuffed out. He remembered Hawke stumbling in through his window, his almost comical surprise at finding Fenris instead of Varric and…

And Fenris thought of magic, corrupting and tainting, and then he thought of the ridiculous look on Hawke’s face when Fenris’ dick had slapped against his cheek. Hawke had laughed at himself. Fenris had never known anyone who could laugh at themselves. Magisters had always been so quick to anger, eager to lash out at any perceived slight.

And Hawke had let Fenris force him on his knees, rather than use magic to defend himself. No matter how Fenris turned the words and the events around in his mind, looking for fault, he could not see it.

The thing was.

While warming the bed of his previous master had not always been strictly unpleasant, Danarius had enjoyed keeping him on his toes. Submit, perform, _obey_ , and you might even enjoy it when I rape you... but then the rules would change, and _Fenris_ was somehow at fault for having failed to anticipate it. “Why do you force me to punish you?” Danarius had asked, his voice full of sorrow, and Fenris had felt nothing but shame for his inadequacy.

The comparison to his brief time with Hawke was so uneven it wasn’t even funny.

Fenris growled, rubbing at his temples. Hawke had _liked_ it when Fenris held him by the neck and pulled him down. Stupid mage, with his stupid smile and stupid fantastic biceps and stupid attractive voice.

And though Fenris had later felt shame for assuming instead of asking, Hawke’s need had been so _obvious_. Shaggy hair slicked with sweat, eyes bright and glossy in arousal, pupils blown wide.  Fenris remembered the way his palm had greedily soaked up Hawke’s heat, pressed against the back of his neck.

Almost without conscious thought, Fenris’ hand wandered below his belt to palm at the erection that now tented his trousers.

That had all been a brand new experience, being on the receiving side of a blow job. Hawke hadn’t even hesitated.

Fenris groaned, ears burning, and pushed his hands into his trousers, wrapping his fingers around his dick. He imagined it was Hawke’s mouth instead, Hawke’s lips wrapped around his cock, sucking him down into wet, welcoming heat.

The real Hawke had taken his time, though, teasing Fenris with feather-light kisses and trailing fingers. It would have been bloody annoying if it hadn’t been so _good_. The wet spots on his cock had felt cool in the draft, in a delicious contrast to the throbbing heat of his blood. The memory made a shiver run down Fenris’ spine.

He stroked himself faster, fingers brushing over the head and smearing clear drops of fluid gathering at the slit. It wasn’t quite enough to really create an illusion of Hawke’s mouth, but that didn’t matter when Fenris remembered everything so very vividly. How he had felt himself _throb_ against Hawke’s tongue, when the man licked down the thick vein running underneath. How he had hooked his legs around Hawke’s back and dug his heels into the hard muscles of it in an effort to bring him _closer_.  How the moonlight coming in through the window had stolen the colour from Hawke’s skin, painting him in stark white, glossy against the black of his hair.

And the look in Hawke’s eyes, their luminous amber so much like the bird of prey he had been named after, and molten with lust.

Pleasure coiled low in Fenris’ belly, curling, and spreading its roots through his body.

Fenris wondered what it would be like, if he were to fall in bed with Hawke again. Would Hawke like to be ridden like a wild horse, Fenris writhing in his lap, slender fingers fisted in his dark hair? Perhaps he would tackle Hawke into bed and _take_ him, whisper filthy, glorious things in his ear, press inside slowly to drive him delirious with pleasure? Perhaps, with Hawke, it would even be pleasurable to be pushed down the mattress, Hawke’s heavy weight on top of him, Hawke’s cock buried inside him, throbbing against the sensitive skin of his hole?

Fenris groaned, pleasure sparking, and spilled his come over his fingers, head thrown back and toes curled as orgasm went through him like arcs of lightning.

Fenris allowed himself to fall back on the mattress, skin slick with sweat. He wiped his fingers clean on the bedsheet. He felt like a droopy doll, limbs heavy and slack with afterglow.

 _Fasta vass_ , Fenris thought. He was in _so much_ trouble.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the time, it's really difficult for me to write Fenris. Hopefully this attempt turned out all right. There's a lot of mildly depressing introspection, but he did just find out the guy who he sort of maybe likes is a mage, so it couldn't be avoided.


	3. Well, something has to give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months pass and tension builds up. Everyone is frustrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another of those 'it's late and I should wait until morning to see if I still like it, but I wanna post it now' chapters.
> 
> In this fic, Hawke is a mage but also carries some daggers in case he needs to be more discreet.

 

Of course, Fenris couldn’t even enjoy his afterglow in peace.

“Well, well, lookit what we got here,” sneered an unfriendly voice. “Misplaced property. Get in, boys, we found the slave!”

Fenris snarled and leaped on his feet.

He’d wandered through Kirkwall at night, and the one time he hadn’t thought to check if he was being followed… Of all the times he picked to let down his guard, it had to be the one that counted.

 _Fasta vass_ , he’d even left his sword too far away. Five feet might as well have been a mile.

But –

There, next to his feet, were Hawke’s knives. He grabbed both and swung one just in time to slice the soft underbelly of the closest mercenary, who had tried to creep in with a soft cloth that smelled of something sweet and heady. Fenris could hazard a guess.

Bloody cowards.

He backed off, uncomfortably aware that he was surrounded in a tiny room and had nothing but two knives that felt small and awkward in his hands. The mercenaries understood as much, grinning the grins of bullies that had cornered an easy victim.

They were in no hurry. Weak-minded bullies always liked to see despair.

Then, the door of the room was elbowed open and a half-naked man fell through.

There was a brief moment of stilled surprise. Hawke clambered on his feet, because of course it had to be Hawke, and punched the closest mercenary to the face. The man flew ten feet and toppled over another.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Varric, who had emerged from the hole left by Hawke’s half-clothed physique. He hauled a massive crossbow over his shoulder and grinned.

“Meet lady Bianca.”

 

* * *

 

When they were done, Fenris climbed over the still-bleeding corpses so he could better stare at Hawke incredulously.

“You punched him,” Fenris said, voice coloured by his disbelief. “You barged in my room without a shirt on and punched a heavily-armoured mercenary. With your bare fist.”

“Well, _you_ took my knives,” Hawke said, throwing up his arms. “And I was sleeping when I heard the commotion. What was I supposed to do, try find my clothes while you were in trouble?”

You could have done _nothing_ , Fenris thought, but you did not.

And, on top of everything that had happened, Hawke even had the gall to look fantastic without his shirt on. He had dark hair all over his arms and his chest, a thinner trail of it leading down his stomach and disappearing somewhere under the rim of his smallclothes. Fenris’ eyes kept slipping down, despite his best efforts.

How _dare_ Hawke have hair _there_.

“In any case,” Varric stepped in smoothly, “I think we should deal with this mercenary issue today. Now that they know where Broody here is staying, I see no sense in waiting for the rest of them to come to us.”

“…Broody?”

“Broodiest elf of them all,” Varric said.

“Every friend gets a nickname,” Hawke said. “Except me, apparently. Frankly, I’m hurt.”

As Varric and Hawke got distracted by a discussion as to whether ‘Hawke’ counted for a nickname when it was a family name and that someone called ‘Aveline’ didn’t have a nickname either, really, if you want one so badly I’ll think of something, how about ‘Chuckles’, Fenris took a moment to lean against the wall and found that he felt just a little bit better.

He’d have to find a new place to stay, though. The familiar smell of dead mercenaries was always especially pungent indoors.

 

* * *

 

Six months later:

 

“Are those two arguing _again_?”

“Uh-huh. Personally, I think it’s just the sexual tension. We’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to notice the way the air just… _sizzles_ when they’re in the same room. You could probably get a static shock if you weren’t careful.”

“ _Really_?”

“No, kitten. But almost. And if they don’t do something about it soon, I’m locking them in a room until they do.”

“Good idea, Rivaini. I’ll lend my closet. The rest of us can go downstairs to play card while they… sort it out.”

“Well, glad to know I’m not the only one who’s getting desperate to see something happen. It’s not healthy, abstaining from booty that fine.”

“Ooh, which booty?”

“Both, kitten.” 

 

* * *

 

Hawke and Fenris hadn’t really spoken about the ill-advised tryst in that dingy rented room.

This is the problem with getting caught up in someone’s voice or eyes or facial hair and thinking with parts that are, generally speaking, not known for careful consideration of the future. Inevitably, real life will catch up and make things awkward.

And it had all made for six months of increasingly strained silence, until That One Night was thought of in capital letters and the void in the conversation chafed at the mind.

Magic made everything worse, simply by existing.

And it wasn’t as though Fenris was afraid, not really. Even his instinctive mistrust had had to give up somewhere along the line. He suspected it had happened around the time he had seen Hawke literally give someone the shirt off his back, becoming, as Carver had put it, a bloody parody of himself in the process.

If anything, Hawke seemed a little _too_ good to be true. Fenris couldn’t stop himself from prodding, like a child that pulls at a half-healed scab.

And Kirkwall could always be counted on to provide a steady supply of blood mages and slavers and assorted scum to remind Fenris of why he was angry.

“How can you be so bloody blind?” Fenris hissed. “Have you forgotten the atrocities we witnessed last week? Templar recruits, kidnapped and _experimented_ on? And the week before, Tevinter slavers in Darktown? ‘Everyone deserves a chance’, you say, and you ignore that those apostates were blood mages, and you _let them loose_. Must I iterate the atrocities I saw in Tevinter? What had magic ever touched, that it doesn’t _spoil_?”

“Well, you,” Hawke said, apparently desperate to try and calm the mood. “You’re fine!”

As far as verbal white flags go, this one went up in flames.

Fenris grabbed Hawke’s shoulders and slammed him against the wall.

He’d fantasized about doing this, because a great many lonely nights fit into the span of six months, but there was nothing erotic about _this_ situation.

Well, not much anyway.

“Do not,” Fenris spat, “ _dismiss_ this!” His arms glowed blue, robbing Hawke’s skin of the little colour it had. “I am _not_ ‘fine’!”

“Sorry! I’m sorry,” Hawke said, gingerly rubbing the back of his head where it had hit the wall. “Yeah, that was a clumsy way to put it. What I mean is, well… whatever you want to call it, you’re not _spoiled_. When something spoils, it is ruined and no good. You throw spoiled things away.”

Fenris could not read letters, but he could read people, and what he read in Hawke’s face and in between the lines was this: ‘I would never throw you away’.

‘Would’, not ‘will’. Hawke never assumed. He had danced around the subject of their increasingly desperate attraction in a manner that told of past experience. ‘Most people don’t want anything more than a single night with an apostate,’ he had said, and the irrationally jealous part of Fenris wanted to ask for details so he could fume over them.

But that was a knot to untangle on some other day. Fenris realised, in a moment of crystal clear insight, that if anything was to ever happen he would have to make the first move. And he was angry enough to ignore the chorus of insecurities and fears that plagued him.

He had pulled Hawke down into a kiss, before the rest of him quite caught up with the impulse to do so.

Hawke made a surprised sound against Fenris’ mouth, but didn’t hesitate to curl closer. There was something desperate about his manner, like a man who sees an illusion of an oasis in a desert.

Six months’ worth of frustration didn’t lend itself to kind and gentle. As far as kisses go, this one was a conflagration. Lust boiled low in Fenris’ stomach and his pulse was loud and thrumming in his ears. He lost track of everything but the wet warmth of Hawke’s lips against his own, and the breath stolen and shared in between.

And Fenris remembered well what Hawke’s lips had done to him, the memory of the path they had traced down his cock all but burned into his memory.

Fenris pulled himself higher, almost climbing the hard planes of Hawke’s body, and wrapped his legs around his waist. His cock, hard from the very beginning, throbbed where it was pressed against Hawke’s stomach. Everything else throbbed with it. Heat was swallowing him whole. His hands shook against Hawke’s throat and scalp.

Hawke groaned and grabbed hold of Fenris’ hips, a reverent look in his eyes. Even now, the touch was gentle, trembling like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.  

Fenris pulled back for a fraction of an inch to hiss and order against Hawke’s lips. “I am not made of glass. If you do something I don’t like, I _will_ tell you.”

He pulled Hawke’s head back down before he had time to answer, but there was something vaguely agreeing about the sound he swallowed. Hawke slid his hands up and down Fenris’ sides, and the touch burned all the way through his thick leathers.

The hold Fenris had around Hawke’s waist faltered.

“Ah!” Fenris yelped, hands grasping at Hawke’s shoulders for support. Hawke swore and caught him by his thighs. Fenris had fallen low enough that he now felt a tell-tale hardness pressing against his bottom.

They looked in each other’s eyes, and burst into laughter.

Eventually, they calmed down enough for Hawke to put Fenris down. Much like that first night, neither wanted to step away yet. The spell of the moment seemed so much more attractive than what the real life had to offer.

“I have yet to give you reassurance that I might consider your invitation for dinner. I… I may never. I do not see why you haven’t sought company elsewhere,” Fenris eventually said, because if he couldn’t speak of the elephant here, he couldn’t speak of it anywhere. “Company that many would gladly offer,” he added bitterly. He had counted every single flirtatious smile thrown at Hawke, and privately seethed over each of them.

“Ah, well, you see,” Hawke said, rubbing at his neck awkwardly. “I’m not _that_ desperate for love. I’ll hold onto hope and risk disappointment, rather than grab the first sweet thing who throws themselves at me. That wouldn’t be fair for any of us.”

Fenris stared at Hawke for several seconds. Then he leaned his head against Hawke’s broad chest to hide the way his face burned.

‘Love’, Hawke had said. So casually, like stating an obvious possibility, like he had already found Fenris and all of his broken pieces worthy of it.

“…In that case, perhaps you will wait for a while longer,” he said, the words muffled against Hawke’s pecs.

“As long as you want. And, luckily, I happen to be very good friends with my hands,” Hawke said, shifting awkwardly. Both of them were still uncomfortably hard. “They are an invaluable aid when the man meat of the menacing south is keeping me up at night.”

Fenris snorted, Hawke laughed, and their breaths swirled together in the heady air between them.

Fenris wasn’t a fool. There was a long way to walk yet, and he didn’t know what waited at the end of it.

But this moment of holding onto Hawke, of laughing with him, felt like a small victory.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's a thing. Didn't quite turn out the way I wanted, but it's good enough. Sometimes this story jumps around in weird ways. 
> 
> Hawke didn't use magic at the beginning, because he didn't have a staff and so didn't want to risk hurting Fenris. 
> 
> Isabela won't be happy to hear they made out and left it at that, though. The Grand Closet Scheme may well become a thing.
> 
> I borrowed one line from this post:  
> http://partyshoggoth.tumblr.com/post/41461283310/important-garrett-hawke-headcanons-cries-a-lot


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